


What You Are In The Dark

by theDeadTree



Series: Hawke Stories [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: Garrett finds out something he wishes he hadn't. Fenris doesn't feel like talking.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was difficult for me to write, but I felt like the implications of Fenris' final companion quest had to be addressed, especially given the context of his relationship with Hawke at this point.
> 
> There are some vague allusions to sexual abuse (sorry), but nothing explicit or outright stated as fact (so not enough for me to justify the use of putting it as a warning, but I'm warning you here in the notes all the same). Take that how you will.

_“You,”_ Fenris began icily as he pinned the now defenceless and wounded magister against the wall of the Hanged Man with an eerie calm, “are no longer my _master.”_

For a moment, Danarius’ eyes bulged and he tried to lash out, clawing at the arm that pinned him there. For one agonisingly long moment, there was nothing but silence in the destroyed tavern and all eyes were on the elf, all of us waiting to see what he would do. It can’t have been more than a second, but somehow it managed to feel like an eternity to me.

Then, the lyrium markings etched into Fenris’ flesh flared even brighter and he clenched his fist.

There was a sickening _crunch_ as blood sprayed, before Fenris pulled back and the magister collapsed to the ground, very dead. And despite myself, despite the fact that it was a spectacularly violent way to go out, I couldn’t help but feel some perverse sense of satisfaction from watching the man who’d caused so much pain and suffering finally die.

But sweet _Andraste,_ that was brutal.

Almost immediately, Fenris turned to Varania, fire in his eyes and ready to kill. For possibly the first time since I’d known him, I got a glimpse at the slave. The bodyguard, the elf Danarius had been so careful to groom into a ruthless animal. I mean, I’ve seen Fenris kill people. I’ve watched him snarl and rage while wandering his decrepit mansion, drinking himself into oblivion. I’ve heard him talk about what he was like before. There’s something different about this. The danger is just that much more immediate.

Varania must’ve sensed it too, given how quickly she pressed herself against the wall in a desperate effort to get away from him.

“I had no choice, Leto,” she told him, perhaps sounding even a little mournful. “He was going to make me his apprentice. I would have been a magister.”

I winced at her words. That was possibly the worst thing she could’ve said.

Evidently, Fenris thought so too.

“You sold out your _own brother_ to become a _magister?”_ he hissed, his tattoos immediately flaring back to life as he advanced on her.

“Fenris,” I called his name gently, while being careful to stay far back. “Stop. Don’t kill her.”

“Why _not?”_ he demanded loudly, viciously. “She was ready to see _me_ killed! What is she to me than just one more tool of the magisters?”

“She’s your sister.”

He gritted his teeth and his hands clenched into tight fists. For a moment, I seriously entertained the possibility that he was going to completely ignore me and kill her anyway – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone and done this sort of thing. I didn’t push it with Hadriana. But I was going to push now. Not because Varania deserved mercy. Because I knew Fenris wouldn’t forgive himself if he went through with killing her.

For such a long time, he stood there, completely torn.

And then, with what seemed like a monumental amount of effort, he pulled back.

 _“Get out,”_ he spat, practically quaking as it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to kill her outright.

Varania, to her credit, didn’t need to be told twice. She immediately scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door, desperate to get out, to get away from this situation. Then she slowed, coming to a hesitant stop just outside the door.

“You said you never asked for this,” she murmured, turning to face her brother one more time. “That’s not true. You wanted it. You _competed_ for it. When you won you used the boon to have Mother and I freed.”

There was a tense beat of silence as I looked from Varania to Fenris and back again several times, trying to process this information while also trying to gauge his reaction. For so long, there was nothing but silence as Fenris just stared, wide eyed, at his sister, looking more shocked and aghast than I’d ever seen him before.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strangely quiet despite how obviously distressed he was by this.

“Freedom was no _boon,”_ she continued quietly, coldly, a distinct edge in her voice. “I look on you now… and I think you received the better end of the bargain.”

And then, she was gone, pushing open the door and disappearing out into the street. For so long, everyone who remained that was still conscious watched the door swing shut, and a resounding, agonising silence filled the room. I just stood there, motionless, trying to ignore just how much her arguments reminded me of all the things Carver used to say to me.

I’d heard it all before, time and again. And I hated it. I hated how familiar it was. I hated the way it made me wonder about my own sibling, about how close he might’ve been to doing something similar.

Fenris’ sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. The noise was so loud and so sudden that I jumped violently in surprise and whirled around to face him.

And for the first time since the entire fiasco began, he was standing still enough for me to actually _look_ at him, and see the absolute wreck he was. He slumped against the wall, breathing hard as the glow from his markings faded and the injuries he’d sustained in the fight all caught up with him. His armour was in a far worse condition than what it had been when we’d come inside, and he was covered in blood – both his own and not.

For the first time since I’d known him, he looked lost, confused, vulnerable. Like a small child who’d been separated from their mother. Like he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what just happened. Couldn’t come to terms with what he’d just done. For the first time in the six years I’d known him, he looked _young._

Perhaps it was only now I realised just how young he truly was. How young he must’ve been.

Immediately, I started towards him, kicking Danarius’ corpse out of the way in a flagrant display of complete and utter contempt and disrespect for the dead.

“Fen-” I began to call his name, trying to think of something, _anything_ to say that would improve the situation in any possible way.

What do I say?

What _can_ I say?

His eyes flicked up to my face and for a moment, he looked as though he was about to break into pieces right in front of me. Then he let out an incomprehensible snarl before picking up his fallen sword and making a beeline for the exit, limping slightly.

For a time, I watched him go, silently despairing as he slammed the door behind him, leaving me standing the middle of a destroyed tavern, surrounded by broken corpses and the unconscious forms of the patrons who’d failed to get out when the fight began. For a time, I didn’t move, just stared mindlessly into the distance, my mind still reeling from everything. From Danarius, and everything he’d said. Every last twisted thing that came out of that piece of shit of a human being’s mouth.

_Do I detect a note of jealousy? It’s not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn’t he?_

I could feel bile welling up in my throat and I had to force it back down as a vile truth finally began to dawn on me.

No.

Maker, _no._

Don’t even think that, Garrett Hawke. Don’t think that for even a second. Do not even entertain the possibility.

_You weren’t always this way, Fenris. Once upon a time, you had affection for me. I remember it fondly._

Sweet fucking Andraste.

I’m going to be sick.

I took one last, lingering look around the well and truly trashed Hanged Man, before my eyes once again fell upon Danarius’ broken corpse, splayed out on the floor at my feet.

And then I ran for the door.

* * *

 

Fenris was – rather unsurprisingly – sprawled out on the dusty floor of the abandoned mansion he’d taken up residence in, halfway into a bottle of what I assumed was some kind of rare and valuable Tevinter wine when I finally caught up to him.

Still in his armour. Still a bleeding wreck. Still not bothering to do anything about it.

“Fenris,” I called his name, quietly, gently. “Fen, you’re bleeding.”

He barely reacted. “It’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

Which automatically means that of course it’s something I should concern myself with, he’s just being weird and evasive and a loner about it so he can go hide in a dark corner and angst.

Well, tough luck, because I’m not going to let him.

I groaned and raked a hand through my hair. “Blood all over your armour is generally _something.”_

He sat up at that, eyebrows shooting up in surprise and anger. “If you think I’m going to beg the mage for help-”

“As much as I’m sure Anders would _love_ to help,” I drawled, “we’re a fair way from the Undercity and I don’t want to be responsible for cleaning up your bloody corpse.”

Knowing Hightown, they’d charge me for littering, too.

For such a long time, he didn’t move, didn’t do anything, just lay there, propped up on his elbows, staring at me like I was completely insane. I let out a long, exasperated sigh and walked over to where he was, kneeling down beside him. I can’t leave him alone. Not in this state. Not after everything that just happened.

Gingerly, I reached out, trying to examine a particularly nasty laceration in his abdomen. The instant my fingertips so much as grazed him, he let out a harsh growl and shifted away from me.

“At least let me _look,”_ I chastised him.

“I don’t want your _help,”_ he snarled. _“Or_ your pity.”

“And I don’t want you to bleed out and die on the floor,” I countered quietly. “Seems we are at an impasse.”

He had nothing to say to that. And honestly, I didn’t expect him to. When I reached again, he didn’t bother resisting. Maybe he realised that despite all his snapping, he did actually require some form of medical assistance. Maybe he assumed I would force it anyway – and rightly so. Maybe he just stopped caring. It was impossible to tell which was the truth.

I leaned in, trying to inspect the wound while being careful not to touch his bare skin – especially the markings themselves. Sometimes he didn’t mind. Most times he did. Especially when he wasn’t prepared for it. Given all that, I preferred to play it safe. Anything else had too much potential to end badly.

For what felt like an eternity, we remained in silence as I busied myself trying to prevent him from dying and he casually continued drinking without a care in the world. My eyes flicked up as he brought the bottle to his lips once more, my lips pressed into a small, disapproving frown.

“You know drinking isn’t going to change what happened,” I told him, sounding more like a concerned parent than I had any right to be. “It won’t make you feel better.”

“I beg to differ.”

“I’m serious, Fenris. It’s not going to help. I’m speaking from experience here.”

He didn’t argue with that. He couldn’t. It had been him who had borne the brunt of my own drunken stupor after what happened with my mother, after all. It had been him I’d spent a solid few days hurling abuse at. Now we’re in almost exactly the same situation, but with the roles reversed. I suppose that means we’re even.

I sighed a little and focused on channelling my magic. Slowly, my hand began to emanate with the familiar soft blue glow of healing magic and I proceeded to work at closing the wound. It was slow, agonising work, partly because I was rusty at this, partly because I was trying to be as gentle with him as possible.

Mostly, I think I was afraid that if I didn’t handle this snarling, foul tempered, alcoholic elf with the utmost care, he’d simply break into pieces.

I glanced up to his face, just to see if he was watching me. He wasn’t. Rather, he was staring adamantly in the opposite direction, like maybe if he didn’t see me cast any magic, he could convince himself that I wasn’t doing exactly that.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, Fenris.

“You never said you were a healer,” he noted quietly.

My brow creased as I tried to concentrate on closing the wound properly. “I’m not.”

“But you know healing magic,” he pressed.

“I know a bit,” I corrected. “Just what my father taught me. I can’t compete with Anders.”

He clenched his eyes shut tight from the pain – of both the wound itself and the magic that was working to close it. I was never very good at healing; some mages have a knack for it, but I wasn’t one of them. Sometimes it seems like that’s the one aspect of my father that I failed to inherit.

I don’t suppose it matters now.

“What was he like?”

I blinked several times, caught off guard by his sudden question. “I- …what?”

“Your father,” he clarified in a surprisingly calm tone, considering his face was screwed up in pain. “What was he like?”

My eyes narrowed as I forced myself to focus on my task, watching his flesh knit back together, carefully making sure it all lined up properly. All of a sudden, I was so much more absorbed in what I was doing, as I tried desperately to do everything in my power to avoid the flood of memories regarding my father that threatened to consume me. Just stupid things, really. Little things. Like all of the jokes. All of the games he was constantly trying to get us to play. Like all those times when he’d walk in and see me bleeding and he’d just kneel down and heal it, without ever saying a word. Like all those arguments we used to have; and all the things I said in the heat of the moment that I’ll never be able to take back.

“He was my father. There’s really not much else to say,” I answered in a strangled voice.

“You’ve never spoken about him.”

I kept my eyes down, recognising that he was keeping the focus on me so we wouldn’t have to talk about any of what just went down in the Hanged Man. But there were things that happened that can’t be avoided. Things I can’t just let go, no matter how much I might want to.

Don’t say it.

_Don’t say it._

Garrett Hawke, don’t you _dare_ say it.

“No, I don’t suppose I have,” I replied absently. “And you’ve never spoken about being anything other than Danarius’ bodyguard.”

 _Sweet Maker, Garrett!_ You just _had_ to say it!

Why?

Why did I just say that?

Why did I have to bring it up?

At my words, his eyes went with fear and confusion. His mouth open and closed several times as he tried to say something, _anything,_ only for words to fail him.

“Oh come on Fenris,” I groaned quietly. “Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I’m not actually a _complete_ idiot.”

My voice was surprisingly calm and even, considering that my hands were shaking as I tried and failed to suppress the rage that crashed around inside me. I knew Danarius was a bastard. I knew he was the kind of sick, twisted human being who tortured and experimented on his slaves. That much was obvious about him. But this new realisation somehow made him and everything he’d done all the more abhorrent.

 _He’s dead,_ I reminded myself firmly. _He’s dead, he’s dead, the man responsible is dead. You watched him die just earlier today. You’ve already kicked that corpse._

That did nothing to quell the rising storm of hatred, disgust, and rage I felt. It did nothing to alleviate the nausea that clawed at my gut every time I dared to look Fenris in the face. I couldn’t tell what was worse – knowing what had been done to him, or knowing that there was nothing I could do to make it right.

I shouldn’t be talking about this.

I shouldn’t be pushing this so much.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to know. And it killed me to ask.

Fenris, meanwhile, remained silent.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I managed to choke out after what felt like an eternity.

Because he doesn’t want my help. Doesn’t want my pity. Doesn’t want me to see him as weak, as someone who needs to be protected. That much of it was obvious.

Because _Maker forbid_ he ever actually admit to being a victim.

He looked away, adamantly refusing to meet my gaze. “There was never a reason to.”

“…I’m sorry,” I murmured. “For everything.”

For the first time since I’d walked in here, he turned to face me, lifting his eyes up to mine.

He didn’t say anything.

Maybe he didn’t need to.

Maybe we were both better off in silence.

I bit my lip in an effort to not push the subject too far. I returned my focus to the wounds that marred his skin. In his rage, he’d been all attack and no defence. He’d left himself wide open. He wasn’t usually this sloppy. Maybe Danarius’ presence threw him. It had thrown me.

 _He’s dead,_ I reminded myself, once again, as my fist automatically began to clench at the thought of Fenris’ former master.

But he’s not the only one of his kind, is he? There are more magisters in Tevinter. More people who claw at power, who think only of themselves, who abuse and torture the people beneath them. A large part of Fenris’ experiences aren’t unique. And for the things that are, I can only wonder how long it will be until that changes. Until some other sick bastard inflicts Danarius’ dream of a lyrium-infused super soldier on another innocent.

It doesn’t change.

It doesn’t end.

I have to wonder if it ever will.

I wanted to ask, but there didn’t seem to be any way to approach the subject delicately. I mean, where do I even begin with that? What am I supposed to _say_ to something like that? What do I _do?_

Change the subject. Right now. To literally anything else.

“Well,” I began in a faux bright tone. “No offense to your sister, Fenris, but she’s kind of a bitch.”

That’s _not better._

“Then why did you insist I spare her?” he shot back venomously.

“Because last I checked, being a bitch isn’t a crime punishable by death,” I pointed out. “Otherwise I’d have killed Carver a thousand times over.”

“It’s not a _joke,_ Hawke!”

“Well then, it’s a _very_ good thing I’m not joking,” I told him shortly. “I know you’re not going to like me saying this, but Danarius knew her insecurities and he used them to manipulate her. It was him. It was _all_ him.”

 _“How_ can you defend her?”

“Because Carver is my brother. Because sibling resentment is a thing I know well. And besides, even if there was no manipulation involved and everything she did was for the promise of power alone…” I trailed off, already hating myself for the words I was yet to say. “In the Fade, you did the same to me.”

His eyes widened in shock and hurt at that. It was a low blow, and I knew it. But I didn’t have anything else I could use to make him see. We’d already had this conversation. I’d already told him, in no uncertain terms, that I didn’t care about what happened. That it was in the past. That I’d forgiven him. And I had. That didn’t change the very real truth of what happened.

“I- I didn’t… that’s not… I was trying to-” he stammered, trying to think of some way to defend himself.

I let out a small, sad sigh and shook my head. _“Power,_ Fenris. Don’t think it was anything more than that. A demon offered you power and you accepted.”

He was silent at that.

“I’m not defending her,” I murmured, gently this time. “And I’m not saying what she did was right. I’m just saying that she didn’t deserve to die for it.”

Silence.

Still.

Really, I should’ve expected that.

“And… I’m proud of you,” I added meekly.

Automatically, he reacted in exactly the way anyone would expect Fenris to react to anything – his lips pulled back into a vicious snarl as he completely missed the point of what I was trying to say. As per usual. Why I ever expect him to take my words as they’re meant, I don’t know.

 _“Proud_ of me?” he questioned, like it was the worst insult anyone had ever said to him. “Why would you… why would _anyone-”_

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. “Dammit, that’s supposed to be a _compliment._ I’m _glad_ you didn’t murder your sister. _Glad._ As in, _happy._ You did a _good thing.”_

And he… surprise, didn’t respond to that. Because of course he didn’t. Why would it be any different now than what it was before? He’s obviously not in a talking mood – when is he _ever_ – but that wasn’t going to stop me. After all, since when has it ever stopped me? He’s sullen and quiet and I’m perky and chatty. That’s what we’re like. That’s been the dynamic of our relationship for six years now; why would it change?

“The fact of the matter is; despite how you might feel, you’re _not_ alone,” I told him quietly, pulling back as the wound I’d been working to heal finally faded into a faint scar and I moved onto another. “You have a life here, with us.”

That earned me a quiet grunt and nothing else. I took that as permission to continue.

“A slave might be all you ever remember being; but it doesn’t matter,” I muttered through the growing exhaustion that was eating away at me the longer I worked on healing his wounds. “You’re so much _more_ than that, Fenris. You’re more than what Danarius made you.”


End file.
